The Case of the Youngest Holmes
by AnimeOtaku4444
Summary: When Sherlock opened his front door that morning, the last thing he'd been expecting was to find his newest client, a newborn girl in need of a family, and alleged to be his own daughter. He must use his skills to find her two good parents, and somehow win back John Watson's devotion in the process. Set post Reichenbach Falls, M rated for eventual JohnLock slash
1. A Parcel For Sherlock

**AN: Hello everyone! This is my latest project, the results of the mad Sherlock-bender I've been going on lately. I can't wait for them to start filming the third season in March! I'm going to cry tears of happy, and then read all the new fanfictions which it will no doubt generate. I'm going back to Uni in a couple of weeks, so I can't promise super-regular updates, but I'll try my best to keep it to no more than every two weeks. **

**I would just like to thank my big sister, BoekOtaku, for being my beta on this project. She's much more of a reader and a beta than a writer, but feel free to check out her short Alex Rider drabble. She also has a comprehensive list of FF.n's best Sherlock fanfiction listed in her favourites. Her fresh eyes have been invaluable to me. Her criticism is always constructive and well-reasoned, she's wonderfully specific, and she has great ideas for re-writing problem areas without losing the context I'd been establishing. I pay for her services by letting her have the super-comfy computer chair instead of the ancient-and-ratty one on days when it's my turn to have the comfy chair. It's totally worth it. ;-)**

It was eight in the morning when the doorbell rang at 221B Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes was nearest the door, just putting on his jacket before he headed out to meet with Detective Inspector Lestrade at Scotland Yard, so he was the one to answer the door. The peculiar thing was, there was nobody at the door, just a small generic wicker basket with a plain white cloth covering it on the doormat, and a small note safety-pinned to it.

There was only one word written on the scrap of paper, but it was enough to freeze Mr Holmes in his tracks. It read 'Sherlock', and had a lipstick kiss below his name. There was only one woman who he had ever seen wearing that shade. The Woman, otherwise known as Irene Adler. She'd probably had that lipstick custom-made by one of her clients. Sherlock unpinned the note, and turned it over. Sure enough, the note elaborated.

_'My dear Sherlock, remember Karachi? Well, I guess amongst all the confusion, I wasn't quite as careful with my pills as I should have been. She's yours. I'm sure you realize that with my occupation and all of its associated hazards, I cannot provide the life that I would wish for her. I understand that you are in the same situation, but it is my hope that you could find a good couple or family who can take her, someplace where she'll grow up safe and happy. I haven't given her a name yet, I didn't want to let myself get too attached. I thought perhaps you might like to have the honour. Please forgive me, Sherlock.'_

With a growing sense of dread, Sherlock tucked the note inside his coat pocket, and lifted aside the cloth to reveal what he already knew it would. Inside the basket lay a tiny baby, wrapped in a warm yellow blanket. He shifted it aside to get a better look at the infant. It was a newborn girl, no older than thirty-six hours judging by the state of the short length of clamped umbilical cord which hadn't yet dried and fallen off, and her eyes which were still the pale blue of a newborn.

Their colour would change in the next few days, perhaps to Irene's hazel, or his own sharp grey. She had a few fine strands of dark hair the same shade as his curls. Her lanky bone structure certainly matched his genetics, but a simple blood test would be able to confirm or refute the note's claims. When the baby wriggled weakly, snuffled and whimpered, Sherlock suddenly realised that it was a chilly almost-autumn morning, covered her back up, and quickly carried her basket inside, up to his apartment.

A million questions whirled about in his mind. How had this happened? Well, aside from the obvious biology of reproduction, it had been more than just Irene's forgetfulness. There had clearly been some carelessness on his part too. He'd foolishly allowed himself to get caught up in the moment after he'd rescued her from scimitar-wielding morons. It was unforgiveable of him. He would never allow that to happen again.

Why hadn't she told him she was pregnant? Well, that wasn't too difficult to deduce. For The Woman, showing any kind of weakness, perhaps most of all such a fragile state as being with child, could only have been a terrible threat to her safety. Besides, with a vulnerable infant in her belly, she'd no doubt had ample motivation for remaining as discreet as possible. There was also the not-so-small matter that until three weeks ago everyone had believed him to be dead.

Well fine, but why then leave the baby on his doorstep, instead of at some anonymous place of safety, like a church or clinic? That was also easy enough to guess. Irene was a sentimental sort. She'd probably felt that Sherlock had a right to know about his own child, and get a chance to meet her. Besides, he had more connections than most, and he would be more thorough in checking out a prospective family for his baby than Irene would have been able to be.

He'd be able to guarantee their daughter the best sort of life she could ever hope to have, filled with familial love and support, an excellent education, and any number of opportunities for her future. If Irene had left her fate in the hands of Social Services, the poor child could have wound up with anyone at all. Also, although the odds were in the favour of a pretty, healthy newborn like theirs, there was no guarantee that she would have been adopted at all.

She could have just been shunted from orphanage to foster care to group home, and been mistreated in any one of those establishments, or in all of them. No, she was much better off with her father screening all potential adoptive parents. He'd get right on it first thing in the morning, right after John had helped him to settle in the newest member of their household. No doubt the Doctor's reaction to this sudden development would be interesting to witness.

Something niggled in the back of his brain, but he ignored it. He had more pressing matters to attend to. Lestrade's robbery case would just have to wait. Besides, it was only a four, he could probably handle this one over the phone. There weren't even any dead victims to examine. The only reason he'd accepted it in the first place was out of sheer boredom. Somehow he had the feeling that boredom was no longer going to be an issue for him over the next few days. It was a good thing that he was well used to sleep deprivation.

He set the basket down in the tidier corner of the living room and grabbed his laptop, vaguely wondering where John's laptop had gotten to, before focusing on researching the care of a newborn, current babysitter rates and nanny agencies, and online baby goods shopping sites. It seemed that newborns mostly just slept, ate, and dirtied their diapers for the first few weeks of their lives. Well, that should make things reasonably simple.

Sherlock sighed at that information. They would definitely be needing some sort of child-minder until he could find the girl a new family, he most certainly wouldn't be changing a diaper any time soon. Whilst he did his research, he simultaneously texted Mycroft. He was loath to rely on his brother like that, but he'd already learnt that babies needed to be fed very regularly, especially breast-fed ones, and he wasn't going to be able to find his daughter a suitable wet-nurse in time for her next feeding on his own.

He'd just have to make sure that Mycroft never found out that the infant was in fact his bastard niece. Sherlock would never hear the end of it if he did. True to form, within twenty minutes of having sent the message, a curious Mycroft and a sleek black limousine filled with twelve applicants for the post of wet-nurse, appeared just outside 221B. Sherlock glanced over each of them as they exited the vehicle. The first three were brunettes.

None of them would do. Secret smoker… violent boyfriend… drinks wine with her dinner… The next two were blondes, the sixth a redhead, the seventh another brunette. Kleptomaniac… uses diet pills… another secret smoker… undiagnosed beginning stages of flu… Where on Earth had Mycroft found all of these useless women? Short notice or not, his brother was definitely losing his touch. He must have assigned his personal assistant to the search.

Perhaps Sherlock should have been more specific as to who the wet-nurse would be caring for after all. Maybe then Mycroft wouldn't have been so careless. The last five stepped out, another blonde, two more redheads, one more blonde, and one last brunette. Promiscuous… diet pills… OH! Hello! The last redhead would suit nicely. Homely, good morals, single mother, just recently weaned her own infant, but still producing plenty of milk judging by the size of her breasts.

There was even a bottle of appropriate vitamin supplements poking from her handbag. He would have to check whether or not the contents of the bottle matched the description on the manufacturer's website of course, but he saw no signs of addiction or withdrawal, and he would know better than most. A single mother judging by the lack of a ring, clearly a trusted relative was watching her child whilst she stepped out. An added bonus was the nurse's cap she wore. She had to be certified to wear the official cap.

It wasn't necessary of course, not with Doctor Watson at his disposal, but it still made him feel better about trusting this stranger with his child… Damn, he'd done it again. For a moment, he'd forgotten that he no longer had John. He wasn't sure whether it was just his imagination or not, but he suddenly felt rather chill. He pulled his coat tighter about his slender frame.

He completely ignored the last two (smoker… getting a cold…). He pointed at the short redhead. "You're hired. The rest of you can go home. Mycroft, don't let them near any other babies. Nurse, follow me." He abruptly turned around and headed back into the flat. The selected woman looked to Mycroft, who gave her his standard smile, and a nod. She hastened after Sherlock's retreating back, and Mycroft followed after her at a more sedate pace.

In the meantime Anthea shepherded the rejected applicants back into the limo, before moving to wait for Mycroft in his black Bentley whilst the limo pulled into traffic. She smirked when she heard Sherlock call, "I don't remember inviting you in, Mycroft." The last thing she caught before she closed the car's door, and Mrs Hudson closed the front door of 221B, was Mycroft's reply. "You have asked me for my assistance for the first time in over three years, and in procuring a wet-nurse no less. Did you really think I wouldn't be curious?"


	2. Phenotype of a Holmes

**AN: Hiya guys! I hope you all love Chapter 2. If you do, please don't forget to review. Reviews are love, and they genuinely inspire me to type and update faster. ;-)**

**Thanks again to my super-awesome beta, BoekOtaku. My big sister took my humble story, and sprinkled her magic sparkles of pure genius on it. I never could have written such a great story without her wicked skillz. Lets hear the love for BoekOtaku! ^.^**

The three entered the living room together. "Where might I ask is Doctor Watson, Sherlock? Still living with his sister?" Sherlock shot his big brother a deathly glare, before deciding to pretend that his brother didn't exist. Instead he walked over to his daughter's basket, picked up the entire thing, and handed it over to the nurse. "This shall be your charge for the time being. She shouldn't be staying for more than a week or so, but if you do your job well enough, I'll recommend your services to whoever gets her."

The nurse looked confused, but she didn't interrupt him. He liked her already. "Your duties shall be those of a wet-nurse and a part-time nanny. You may bring your own child here if you can't find a sitter, but I'm sure you'll find that dealing with me and just one baby will be more than enough to be getting on with." The nurse nodded to show him that she was listening, but still didn't ask her questions yet. She was absolutely perfect.

"I work with the police, so I may leave alarming crime-scene photos scattered about, and you may or may not find human body-parts in the fridge, all legally acquired I can assure you. I can be rather difficult to be around, but you shall be generously compensated, won't she Mycroft?" When Sherlock received no answer, he turned to look at his brother.

The nurse, whose name Sherlock had still not taken, had carefully lifted his baby from her basket, and was taking a look at her. From the angle she was standing at, Mycroft could see the baby too, and he seemed to have become somewhat ashen. "Sherlock, whose baby is that, and why do you have her?" Sherlock sighed, and stared out of the window.

"She's the child of my newest client, who wants me to find a good home for her. Her mother grew up in the foster system, and it didn't go particularly well for her, so she doesn't trust them to find a suitable family for her daughter. Unfortunately Ophelia can't tell her fiancé that she's had another young man's child, and the baby's father wants nothing to do with either of them. Apparently she read about my abilities in John's blog. She was quite sensible to come to me, of course."

Mycroft slammed his umbrella on the floor, instantly setting the baby bawling. "I know when you are lying to me Sherlock! Now tell me whose child she really is, and why she has the phenotype of a Holmes! Who did you have her with, Sherlock?" Sherlock gritted his teeth. He couldn't tell Mycroft about Irene, not when his brother still believed her death to have been genuine, it would only put her life in jeopardy.

But his brother knew him too well. Mycroft knew that it would take a very special sort of woman for Sherlock to have allowed something like this to happen. Fortunately he was saved from having to respond when John came thumping upstairs. Still using his cane, then? Tsk tsk. John's psychosomatic limp had come back a few days after Sherlock had faked his death, and persisted even now that Sherlock had returned.

When John had come home from the grocery store three weeks ago and found Sherlock in their living room, he'd fallen to the ground in shock. His first reaction had been to throw a book at him, to see whether or not it went right through the tall man. After all, he had to be imagining him. He'd seen Sherlock jump with his own eyes. He'd watched Sherlock die, watched him get buried. He must have finally lost his marbles.

When Sherlock had caught the book mid-air, and established that he wasn't a figment of John's imagination, his second reaction had been to call Sherlock a string of colourful swearwords, and simultaneously throw several more books, only two of which Sherlock had failed to catch or divert. They'd both been rather heavy, enough to leave bruises on his already battered skin.

When Sherlock had moved closer, and offered his hand to help John up, the Army medic had punched him square on the jaw, and threatened to do it again if the genius uttered a single word. After that John had stood, gathered most of his things, and left to move in with his sister. He'd come for the rest of his things a few days later, while Sherlock was out. His bedroom was still abominably empty and bare.

Since then he'd been coming around twice a week to visit Mrs Hudson, but strictly avoiding Sherlock Holmes. He just wasn't ready to hear Sherlock out, not after the eight months of hell he'd been through, thinking that his best friend was dead. Now it seemed that the ruckus had attracted John's adrenaline addiction. "What in Heaven's name is going on in here? Why is there a baby in Sherlock's apartment? And why is Mycroft shouting? I've never heard him shout so loudly in my life. Is the world coming to an end once and for all?"

Mycroft headed him off at the landing, and tried to close the door on him, but John blocked the door with his cane, and forced the door open. He gave Mycroft a _look_, and the irate Holmes backed down. That look said everything John meant it to. 'You may outrank me, and have the ability to turn my life into a living hell, but it's not all that far off from it already, and even if it weren't, there are some things I'm just not going to tolerate. Someone getting between me and Sherlock when that stupid genius is being yelled at being one of those things.'

Sherlock was the first to say something. 'Nurse, either quiet that infant down, or remove her from the room. None of us can hear ourselves think in here." He waited until the woman had taken his baby into his bedroom, and closed the door behind her. "Perfect timing as usual, John. I'll be needing some assistance setting up the nursery in your old bedroom. I've already ordered the necessary items online, they should be arriving by the end of business hours today. I don't suppose you have any previous experience with this sort of thing?"

John sighed long-sufferingly. "If you want me to help you put the crib together, then first you're going to have to explain to me what you're doing with a baby in the first place. Where did it come from, Sherlock? Why haven't you handed it over to Lestrade yet?" Sherlock huffed, and turned up his nose. "I'm not handing her to Social Services. I don't trust them to find the best home for her, and neither does her mother, so I've been charged with the task, and fully intend to see it through. I'll be holding interviews starting first-thing tomorrow."

John blinked. He really shouldn't be surprised anymore. "Sherlock, you aren't a Social Worker, or a priest, or anything even remotely similar. Who gives you the authority to do this? Why would you accept this client when there's no mystery in it for you, no puzzle?" Sherlock swallowed subtly, and his eyes slipped to where his violin lay invitingly on the side-table next to his armchair.

Mycroft answered for him. "The only reason he ever might have accepted is because the child is his bastard. If she isn't a Holmes with that bone structure, I'll eat my umbrella, and no Holmes ever disregards family. What I don't know is who her mother is, and I'm not leaving here until I have her name." John sputtered, struggling to regain control of his vocal skills. "Sherlock? Is he right? Is the baby yours?" Sherlock gave him a brief sideways glance, a clear sign that he was worried about what John would think of his response.

"Fine, I'll admit it. I believe she's mine, although I haven't yet run a blood test to determine that with absolute accuracy. Just don't go spreading it about, that would only put her in terrible danger. I'm sure you can understand that, John. Even before Moriarty had you strapped into that jacket of Semtex, you were already being targeted by some of my lesser enemies on occasion, and I wasn't always able to protect you from them."

John thought back to some of the times Sherlock was referring to. It was true that his life had been in danger on a fairly regular basis when they'd been tracking killers together. Sherlock continued, reading his facial expressions. It always felt to John like Sherlock was trying to read his mind when the genius looked at him so intently like that.

"The only reason you survived most of those instances was because of your aptitude with firearms and military combat training; I can't take any chances with a bloodless innocent who is powerless to defend herself. It would be cruel to inflict my lifestyle on somebody who isn't even old enough to object to it. Don't ask me about her mother, either. I will not betray her faith in me, for the same reasons. Being directly connected to me would be dangerous for her."

John mulled it over for a second, but he knew that everything Sherlock was saying made perfect sense. It usually did, when he was speaking in full sentences and at normal speeds. "How long have you known about her? Didn't her mother say anything before?" Sherlock shook his head minutely. "The first I learned of her existence was forty-three minutes ago, when I found her on my doorstep. The note which was attached to her blanket, combined with her colouring and skeletal structure, left me in little doubt of her origins."

John limped closer to Sherlock. "So that's it then? You're just going to hand her over to the first couple who passes muster, and forget that she exists?" Sherlock gave him a withering look, but it was Mycroft who explained the situation. "It would be the best way to keep her safe, Dr. Watson, but bastard or not, she is still a Holmes. She would never be forgotten. I would offer to take her in myself, since I certainly have the resources to ensure her safety, but I know that Sherlock would never agree to that."

Sherlock snorted derisively. "Oh yes, because being raised by a flock of governesses, nannies, and private tutors until we were considered old enough to be shipped off to posh boarding schools did us _such_ a lot of good, Mycroft. Why, just look at the fine, well-balanced individuals we came to be. A close-knit, caring family would surely ruin her entirely." John gave Sherlock the strangest look. The genius couldn't decipher it for the life of him.

The doctor's next words sent his mind reeling. "Sherlock, I'm moving back in. We can sleep in your bed in shifts. You can't be trusted to take care of a newborn baby all on your own, not even with Mrs Hudson and a trained nurse to help you. I might even be able to help you pick out your daughter's new family, give you health assessments and the like. I'm just going to go fetch my things from Harry's."

John turned to the door, but paused on the landing. "Oh, and Mycroft, please try to behave while I'm not here to play the referee, and keep your voice down. It sounds like that nurse just got the baby back to sleep. It would be lovely if we could keep it that way, don't you think? And just one last thing, the next time I hear you use a curse-word to describe your own niece, I will break your nose. She is your family, and has done absolutely nothing to deserve your disrespect." Finished, he walked down the stairs, limp and cane forgotten.

Mycroft blinked. Had he really just been told to behave, like he was a mischievous child, and threatened with a broken nose at the same time? Christ. This must be how Sherlock felt every day. No wonder his behaviour was improving. That Dr Watson was truly fearless. What now? He had to find out the mother's identity, and Sherlock had made it quite clear that he wasn't going to expose her, as though Mycroft might allow any harm to befall the poor woman. Then again, perhaps that in itself was telling.

At any rate, it was time to go. He had a good deal of research to undertake. With one last look at Sherlock, and a warning not to accidentally kill his niece, Mycroft left 221B. Sherlock just sniffed at him, and went to check on the nurse. As it turned out, her name was Mary Morston. John was back soon, and Sherlock helped him move back in. He decided to change his own room into the nursery instead, and sleep on the sofa. That way he'd be more likely to hear her if she began to cry in the middle of the night, anyway.


	3. Broken Crows' Wings

**AN: Hello everyone! I managed to update on time this chapter, even though my wifi was giving me trouble. Yays! ^.^ ****Thanks once again to my kickass beta, BoekOtaku. She did an amazing job with this as usual, she always has the most helpful advice!**

**In this chapter, the baby gets a name. Please tell me what you think of it! What would you have named her if this was _your_ story? Negative or positive, any comment is more than welcome! I love reviews, they feed my soul. You wouldn't want me to starve, would you? *sad puppy eyes***

x

John lay in his old bed, at 221B Baker Street, and sighed. Sleep eluded him. He should probably be used to that by this point, only for once it wasn't Sherlock's bored butchery of his violin which was keeping the doctor awake. He just kept thinking about Sherlock, and the things he'd been saying, the way he'd talked about his as-yet-nameless daughter. Sherlock already fully acknowledged her as his, and was protective of her.

An outsider, or an idiot like Donovan, might have taken these two pieces of information and come to the conclusion that Sherlock felt a sense of obligation and duty towards the infant, and that this was the reason he was willing to go to such lengths for her. They would have been wrong. No, Sherlock utterly scorned the very concept of 'duty'. The real reason why he was doing this, trying to find the best possible home for her, was because she was his, a little piece of him.

She was also completely innocent and vulnerable, and that terrified him out of his mind. Even if Sherlock felt these things too deep down for the genius to notice, John noticed, because John knew Sherlock's heart better than he did. Sherlock saw himself in that precious baby girl, and wanted her to have a better life than he'd had. That was about as selfless as Sherlock Holmes got. It was a good thing, a healthy thing. He still couldn't help worrying about Sherlock though.

x

Sherlock lay on the sofa in the living room, waiting for the baby's next feeding. There were bottles of Mary's expressed breast-milk in the fridge. It was almost as though he was being haunted by his past. He kept seeing memories of his childhood, but instead of a curly-haired little boy, he saw a pretty little girl. He imagined her being treated as alien by her own family and neighbours, a problem which her parents were too busy to deal with personally, all because her brain worked differently than theirs.

She wasn't aware of the unspoken social rules which she was always breaking. She didn't understand that she was even doing anything wrong, and nobody else realized that, or tried to explain it to her. They all assumed that by mere virtue of her birth, and the surname 'Holmes', that she must already know, that she can't possibly be ignorant of their protocols, and therefore must be doing it on purpose, and how dare she be so rude.

At school she was isolated even further, taunted, and viciously bullied, because of both her social ineptitude and her intimidating level of intelligence, something which wasn't even a fault. It lasted from preschool, right up until her very last day of college, even though she'd been so excited to attend an institution which she had assumed would be filled with clever people who would finally understand.

Instead, she was almost eaten alive by the wolves, intelligent and sinfully wealthy young people taught from birth that they were privileged and untouchable, and no wrongdoings of theirs would ever be punished. Corrupting her was no more than a game to them, and they would come dangerously close to winning. There were only a few small differences. For example, the little girl wouldn't have a 'Mycroft' of her own, to stave off the bloodthirsty beasts.

Sherlock could see the swift, steady destruction of that child's heart, soul, and innocence. He could imagine her at her worst, in an alley or abandoned warehouse, with a needle in her arm, and empty eyes, completely and excruciatingly alone. Every fibre of his being was telling him that he could not let this pure infant suffer the same fate he had. He had a chance to give her something truly precious. He could help her find her own 'John'.

She wouldn't have to wait until her late twenties to stumble upon her 'Watson', like he'd been fortunate enough to experience. He would find her one to raise her, to give her everything she would so desperately need whilst growing up; love, support, and a healthy modicum of understanding. It was the least he could do, since it would be his burdensome intelligence she'd be inheriting in the first place, if she did inherit it.

x

John tossed in bed. He couldn't get his brain to shut up about Sherlock. Was this how Sherlock felt when he was ranting about how bored he was? He may have described himself as a high-functioning sociopath, but John knew that Sherlock was capable of emotions, no matter how deeply he buried them. The younger Holmes had an unexpected chance to give his daughter the childhood which he'd only ever been able to dream of having.

Sherlock was deeply and hopelessly attached to that baby, but he would find her a good home with a new family because it wasn't safe for her to grow up in his dark shadow, an easy target for all of Sherlock's numerous enemies. It was bad enough the number of times John got kidnapped or injured, even when he had his gun on him.

Then, when Sherlock found what he was looking for, he would hand that baby over to her new family with a smile on his face, even as his heart shattered into a million pieces at being separated from her. He would drive himself mad, thinking about her, worrying about her, second-guessing his decision, and probably even stalking her, and severely neglect his body's need for sleep and food. When that time arrived, the only thing which Sherlock would have to keep him sane would be his faithful blogger.

So, John would put aside his hurt and anger which he still had from being forced to watch Sherlock jump, and be here for him. Because Sherlock Holmes was still his friend, and God but he'd missed him. That night, when Sherlock had returned to him, and John had moved in with Harry, that night he'd lain in his bed, sobbing with relief. He'd gotten his miracle. Now, it was time for him to make use of it.

x

The first hurdle came when John arrived downstairs to find Mary feeding the baby on the sofa, and Sherlock adjusting his deep-purple scarf. "John, you're finally awake! Lestrade called, he needs me at New Scotland Yard for a couple of hours. I shouldn't be too long. Keep an eye on things here for me, won't you? John? What's the matter? You have the oddest expression on your face." It wasn't seeing Mary which had done it. No, it was seeing Sherlock. He was wearing his coat, that same black garment which he'd worn standing on the roof of St. Barts.

He swallowed thickly, dark images from his worst nightmares reliving themselves in his head. That coat had fluttered like huge, broken crows' wings. When his friend had thudded, crunched onto the pavement, the black wool had seemed like a shroud. "It's nothing, really. Just your coat, it brings back unpleasant memories." Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly, and danced back and forth as he tried to deduce what memories his coat had triggered, before widening in understanding.

He didn't say anything more, he just left the apartment. John kept an eye on Mary and the baby, and resolved to get used to seeing Sherlock in that black coat of his. Only, when Sherlock returned four hours later, his black coat was gone. In its place was a woollen, earth-brown trench coat, similar in style to its black predecessor, but without the accompanying triggers. The gesture was a small one, but it floored John. He smiled at Sherlock, who just nodded acknowledgment, and tried in vain to hide his mild embarrassment.

"So, are you going to name her then? The baby, I mean." Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. "She's not mine to name, John. I plan to leave that task to her parents." John sighed. "She needs a name, Sherlock. We can't just keep calling her 'the baby' or 'her'. What about a family name? You could name her after your mother, or a favourite aunt maybe, or one of your grandmothers." Sherlock sniffed with disdain. "You mean Elizabeth, Victoria, Mary, or Anne? I detest the British habit of naming babies after our monarchs. It's painfully unoriginal."

John grimaced. He should have known, given how clearly upper-class the Holmes family was. Sherlock had a point, too. There was no advantage in being named after a thirteenth century king. There had been two other 'John's in his class throughout high school, and it had been rather confusing. By the end of first term, the teachers had all taken to calling them by their surnames, to distinguish between them. It had been the same for the seven girls named Elizabeth.

"You and Mycroft weren't named after kings though. Where did you get those odd names of yours?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes in a mild glare. His name was not _odd_. It was _British_. "Mummy was an avid fan of a certain writer. She named us after two of his characters." John looked thoughtful. "Alright then, how about you carry on the tradition, and name the baby after one of that author's female characters? You must be able to look them up online."

Sherlock considered this. "He didn't have many female characters, and the ones he did have were often somewhat feeble… I always did like the minor character Lucy, though. She seemed to have a bit more fight in her." Sure, he'd liked the character 'Irene' far more, but he could hardly name the baby after her mother. John gave him a warm smile. "Lucy is a lovely name. It suits her perfectly." Sherlock snorted. "Lucy is a _common_ name, John. Her official name will be Lucasta. Lucy will just be her nickname."

John choked on some tea. "Lucasta? Where on Earth did you find a name like _that_?" Sherlock rolled his eyes at him. "Honestly John, did you never read poetry in public school? Besides, it's far more original than 'Lucille' or 'Lucinda'." John shook his head, but he had to agree. It _was_ more original. Besides, her official name wasn't too important, most people would just call her Lucy. "Fine, Lucasta then. I'm never calling her that, but it's none of my business what you put on Lucy's birth certificate."


	4. His Face Turned Ashen

**AN: Hello everyone! I sorry I forgot to update yesterday, I got distracted by homework. At least I'm only one day late, and not more. ^.^' ****Thanks once again to my kickass beta, BoekOtaku. She doesn't just read over everything, and point out ways to improve the story. She waits for me to make the suggested changes, _and then reads it again_. A real angel! *huggles BoekOtaku***

**In the last chapter, the baby got a name. I was really surprised and sad that nobody reviewed to tell me what you think of it. Didn't anybody have any thoughts on it? What would you have named her if this was _your_ story? Negative or positive, any comment is more than welcome! I love reviews, they feed my soul. You wouldn't want me to starve, would you? *sad puppy eyes***

**In this chapter I'll be introducing a couple of new characters, sort of. Please let me know what you think! Did I get it right? Would you have done anything differently? Is there someone or something, some situation which you would like me to write about? I'm very open to suggestion, so please, suggest away! ^.^**

**Warning: There's a mention of suicide**

**x**

The day after Lucy had arrived on his doorstep, Sherlock put an advertisement in the local newspaper for the private adoption of a girl born on the ninth of that September. He'd listed a brand new cellphone number, and the alias 'George Doyle' as the contact name, to protect Lucy's anonymity. The first calls came in almost immediately, and Sherlock carefully grilled each hopeful couple before even considering booking them an interview.

He'd devised a series of questions designed to determine the likelihood of the couple ever divorcing, how financially stable they were likely to be for the next three decades, a rough life expectancy for each member of the couple, how patient they were capable of being, and most importantly, how they would treat a child which showed signs of being more intelligent than them by the age of three. That was just to name a few.

His new phone had gotten over two hundred calls by the end of the first week, but out of those, only twelve couples made it to the 'live interviews' stage. It reminded John of 'Britain's Got Talent', or 'X Factor: UK', only this show had a judge who made Simon Cowell seem like a teddy bear. Still, it seemed that not even Sherlock Holmes' meticulous screening process was sufficiently exacting. Within minutes of the first couple's arrival at their flat, Sherlock had sneaked off to the kitchen to text Lestrade.

The Potters hadn't even realized yet that Sherlock had surreptitiously handcuffed them to the furniture when Greg arrived. As it turned out, just ten minutes had been long enough for Sherlock to deduce that they were actually a pair of international assassins who had fallen in love and retired, and genuinely wanted to settle down and start a family. It was only an old wound from a near-miss which was preventing them from having a child of their own.

The best part of the whole situation was that Sherlock had been forced to tell Lestrade that the advert had been part of an elaborate trap, that there had never been any baby, and pray that Lucy didn't start crying until the man had gone. Greg had looked concerned, but it seemed that the idea of Sherlock actually having a baby in his apartment seemed too far-fetched to him. He didn't even insist on a search.

x

Sherlock opened the door and froze. His face turned ashen, his eyes wide with fear. A large part of him wanted to shout to John, to tell him to take Lucy and run, but the rest of him knew that it would be pointless. The doctor was sitting in his armchair, watching Sherlock and the newcomer over his lowered newspaper, curiosity and caution written on his face. His body shifted so that he'd be able to spring from his chair at a moment's notice.

Somehow that gesture made Sherlock feel a little more relaxed. What must John make of this stranger, who resembled his flatmate so much, but looked so much older? Managing such an expansive country estate really must be taking its toll on the man, he was starting to look like a superbly dressed, and grey-at-the-temples, Robert Downey Jr. Sherlock addressed the man at the door with a well-faked casual ease. "Sherry, what brings you to London?"

The man at the door raised an eyebrow at him, in a 'Like you don't already know' sort of way. "I'm here for Lucille, Shirley. What else would bring me all the way into town?" Sherlock clenched his teeth. "Her name is Lucasta, Sherry, and you're not taking her." The tall man with well-tended, wavy hair the same shade as Sherlock's curls didn't even bother to argue with him. "You're being ridiculous, Shirley. You know as well as I do that Mummy isn't going to let her only granddaughter be raised by perfect strangers."

Sherlock snorted. "Oh no, of course not, just by a governess and a nanny. That's not the life I want for my daughter, Sherry." The man rolled his handsome dark-blue eyes. "Mummy is perfectly capable of giving Lucille a good life, Shirley. She raised us just fine, after all, even with Father dead so soon before his time." Sherlock snarled at the man, who was only shorter than him by half an inch. "Have you forgotten Vie already? She came within a hair's breadth of dying, Sherrinford, and don't you dare say a word about it being her own doing!"

The man sighed, in a way which suggested that they'd had this conversation many times before. "Violet didn't die, Sherlock. Besides, I would never let the same thing happen to Lucille. Neither would Mummy, you remember how distraught she was over that whole affair. She still gets rather quiet whenever Vie misses our family gatherings. You don't see her like I do Sherlock, when she thinks that she's alone in a room. She never forgave herself for her mistake."

Sherlock's entire face distorted. "Distraught? Violet might as well have been a ghost for two years! She begged Mummy not to make her go through with the wedding, that man was old enough to be her father! Even _you_ advised Mummy against it, but she still insisted! Only God knows what would have happened if Mycroft hadn't gotten Violet that annulment! All that, just to seal a business deal, like Violet was nothing more than another asset to trade with! Our own sister, Sherrinford!"

Sherrinford sighed, and Sherlock noticed that he had new wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. "Like I said, Shirley, I would never put Lucille through that. Political and business marriages were common in Mummy's time, especially among those who were less than a hundred relatives away from the crown like her, and it worked out well enough for me, but the times change. Lucille shall be free to marry whoever she wishes."

Sherlock shook his head. "Times change? Really, Sherry? Is that why you insist on calling her Lucille?" The older man grimaced, and looked away. "Fine, Lucasta then. I meant what I said though, Shirley. I wouldn't force the child into anything." Sherlock stared into his brother's soul. "Is that what you'll be telling William when it's time for him to inherit the estate? Your son's future was decided before he was even born. How is that fair, Sherry?"

Sherrinford swallowed, but before he could speak again Sherlock continued. "You didn't mind being stuck in Sussex while Myra joined the government and I followed my own passions, but what will you do if William doesn't feel the same way? What then, Sherry? I'm not going to let Lucasta be bound by tradition just because she is my first born. Go back to Sussex and tell Mummy that she can't use Lucy to replace Vie." His brother dipped his head, defeated. "Can I at least meet her before I go? Myra tells me that she's quite the gem."

Sherlock showed his brother to the nursery upstairs, where Mary was sitting with a book while Lucy took her nap. Sherrinford stood beside the crib, and peered at the little girl. "She's beautiful, little brother. She reminds me of William when he was her age, but he takes after his mother more than me these days. I do hope you'll send me pictures on her birthdays." Sherlock moved away from the doorway to stand next to his much older brother.

He reached a hand down to gently brush a dark curl away from his daughter's eyes. "Of course, Sherry. It's the least I can do. I'll send them to Myra and Mummy as well. Perhaps I'll even send some to Vie, if she doesn't send them back." Sherrinford smiled sadly. "Don't be silly Shirley, I'm sure she's forgiven you by now. The two of you were always closer than any of the rest of us."

John waited until Sherlock's brother had left before approaching him. "So, I didn't realize that you have more than one brother." Sherlock gave him a sidelong glance, but he didn't mind telling John about this. "Sherrinford is the oldest of us, twelve years my senior. He didn't get Father's gift for deductions, but he inherited his talent for making good investments. Mycroft was born second, seven years before me. He was Father's favorite."

John couldn't hide his curiosity. "I'm quite sure this is the first time you've ever mentioned your father. Where was he in all of this?" Sherlock gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "Father died from a massive heart attack when I was three, he was fifty-seven at the time. I can barely even remember Arthur Holmes. Mummy looked after the estate until Sherrinford finished school, and then he inherited. It's irrelevant. You wanted to know about my sister. Violet was born only one year before me, the two of us were quite close as children."

John raised a questioning eyebrow at him. "Only as children? What happened?" Sherlock sighed, and turned his attention back to the window. "From the time Violet turned ten we were sent to separate boarding schools. She went to a series of girls-only schools, while I attended boys-only schools. I think Mummy was hoping that it would encourage us to be more social. It didn't. We just became the library hermits in our respective schools, her in the fantasy section, and me in the science section. We wrote letters to each other almost daily."

John nodded. He was hesitant to bring it up, but Sherlock had to have known that he would overhear his conversation earlier. "What happened to your sister? It sounds like she was married off for a business deal, completely against her will, and then something very bad happened. When is the last time you spoke with her, or wrote her?" Sherlock's eyes saddened. It was a very subtle thing, John severely doubted that anybody else would have noticed it.

"On her wedding night, she tried to kill herself. Her husband was so angry with her that he almost let her die, but in the end he called for an ambulance. It was touch-and-go for a few days, but she pulled through. By the time she'd recovered enough to be sent home, Mycroft had arranged an annulment, on the grounds that the union hadn't been consummated. She wouldn't speak to anyone, not a word, and I was stuck at school."

John frowned deeply. "If you were still young enough to be in school, and she was only a year older than you, then how old was Violet at the time?" Sherlock glared death at the window. "I was in my second year of high school, Violet had only just turned sixteen. Her husband was more than twice her age, and had the sort of cold, authoritarian personality which Violet abhorred. We all tried to talk Mummy out of it, Violet begged her for weeks, but nothing worked."

Sherlock paused for a moment to clench his jaw, and reign in his anger. With his excellent memory, everything still felt just as fresh and raw as it had been when it had first happened. "Mummy just kept insisting that she'd been married at that age herself, and Violet would learn to love Sir Taylor. It didn't help that an arranged marriage had already worked for Sherrinford. His wife and he were never the head-over-heels sort, but they work well as a team, and they're affectionate with each other."

John didn't know what to say. It was clearly a very complex family issue, and he didn't want to stir up trouble, but he had to know how Sherlock had become estranged from the sister whom he clearly loved. "What happened when the school holidays came?" Sherlock's anger faded away, and the sadness crept back into his features. "Mummy wanted to make me stay at school over those holidays, but my brothers believed that Vie might talk to me, so they arranged for me to come home. They were right."


	5. A Mrs Smith Now

**AN: I'm so sorry everyone! I've had this typed for weeks, but I recently got swept off my feet by Supernatural, and somehow found myself on a Destiel bender, writing 'Castiel's Love'. Please don't hate me! T_T**

Sherlock's whole body was tense, clearly what came next had been a bad experience for him. "The first time we were alone together, with the door locked, she asked me to help her escape. She wanted to cut all ties with her family, and start a new life somewhere outside of England, a life which was all her own. I didn't know what to do. I didn't have many connections back then, my school years were a rather trying time for me, and I selfishly wanted to maintain my relationship with her. I thought that things would get better over time, but they didn't."

John stepped closer to Sherlock, trying to convey supportive vibes. Sherlock took a deep breath, and continued his sad tale. "After two weeks, she stopped trying to convince me. She barely spoke a word to any of us for almost two years, before she disappeared a few days after her eighteenth birthday." John looked at Sherlock with curiosity which he immediately understood. He gave a sigh, and explained why he hadn't been able to find her right away, just like he'd found countless runaways and kidnapping victims.

"She must have spent that whole time planning and preparing for her escape. She timed it so that Sherrinford and Mycroft would both be away on business, and I would be in London, attending University. I skipped a grade in primary school, so I'd just moved into my first dorm room. She set up dozens of intricate false trails, and hundreds of subtle red herrings. Mummy's best Private Investigators were stumped." John gave him a dry look. "I wasn't really asking about your mother's PIs, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded, he already knew this. "Mycroft didn't yet have the influence needed to access the resources he would've required to track her down, and my career hadn't even begun yet. I had no real-world experience, no finances of my own, and no social networks. I didn't acquire those until two years after I'd gotten my Honours in chemistry at the University of London. Violet was too clever to get sentimental enough to send us any hints, or leave any clues." Oh, John could believe that easily enough. It sounded like Violet really was a Holmes.

Sherlock was talking with pride now, and just a little bit of wistfulness. "She became an absolute ghost, John. She assumed a new identity, Elle Hunter, an American. I've heard that her accent is a flawless southern drawl. I learnt about the art of disguise from my sister, you know. She always worked for cash only, moved cities every month, and moved countries every four months. I'm still not quite sure where she found her forger, although I suspect it was through a classmate from her last school."

John glanced at Sherlock, but decided to ask the question. "The school she was at before the wedding?" Sherlock didn't react to him, but he answered the question. "No, Mummy sent her to a new boarding school, after the marriage fiasco. Sherrinford persuaded her to let Violet finish her last year-and-a-half, so she could graduate. She did, there was a lovely ceremony about a month before she fled." John nodded, satisfied, but clearly the story wasn't finished yet.

Sherlock smiled at him, and continued his tale. "Mycroft and I have each been able to find her since then of course. I found her first, through the homeless network. It doesn't just work in England you know, they're all over the world. Mycroft was only able to get Interpol unofficially involved the year after I'd found her. He's still bitter over it. We keep an eye on her just to be sure that she's safe, but neither of us have tried to contact her, or told the rest of the family her whereabouts."

John shifted to stand a little closer to Sherlock. "How did all of this affect your relationship with your mother? I thought you were somewhat fond of her?" Sherlock sighed. "I forgave Mummy once I knew that Violet was still alive and well. We all knew that she honestly never meant to hurt Violet the way she did. With the way she'd been raised, she genuinely just didn't understand, and I certainly know how that feels."

John nodded. He didn't really understand himself, but the upper classes had always seemed a bit like a different species to him. "Your sister is alright then?" Sherlock smiled, but his eyes were still sad. "Oh yes, Violet seems to be happy enough. She lives in Spain with the man she married five years ago. She's a Mrs. Smith now." Sherlock paused to join in John's chuckling. They shared a knowing look.

"Yes, I'll bet she loved the irony herself. She might as well have married a Mr. Doe. It's probably one of the reasons she chose him. Her husband is also in the army, and gets transferred often, so she has a legitimate excuse for her regular changes of address now. She's had three small children with him, two boys and a girl. She named them Gabriel, Raphael, and Michaela, after the archangels. She always did love the idea of angels. Michaela was born just four months before Lucy, I got the first pictures a few weeks ago."

John smiled, and asked to see them. Sherlock fetched a folder from his bedroom, which had pictures of all three children. They were all beautiful. John could spot the Holmes in all of them, in their colouring, or their bone structure. Sherlock showed him the newest ones, of the baby girl. "She looks just like her father, but she has Violet's eyes. My sister used to have the same eyes as me, before she started wearing green contacts. Sherrinford got Grandfather Charles's dark blue eyes, and Mycroft got Mummy's much lighter shade of grey."

John's brow creased in concentration as he remembered something Sherlock had said. "Hang on a second, is that where this ridiculous feud between the two of you started? Over who found your long-lost sister first? Why would Mycroft have been bitter about something like that?" Sherlock smirked at the window in a smug fashion. "Well, it didn't help much that I was in the middle of my third stint in rehab at the time. Myra found that little detail to be quite galling."

John spluttered, and Sherlock's smirk vanished. "Your third stint? Your _third_ stint, Sherlock? Just how many times did you get booked in before it actually took?" Sherlock avoided John's eyes, his face getting a little bit pink. "The seventh time was the charm for me. I've been clean ever since then, unless you count cigarettes." John looked like he wanted to say something, but just couldn't find the words. He gave up with a grimace.

Things got a bit awkward for a minute, but then John found his voice again. "What was so different about your seventh trip to rehab? What was it about that place which made it succeed where all of the others had failed?" Sherlock thought carefully about his answer before saying anything. "It had nothing to do with the facility, actually, although it was a lovely place. While I was there, I got a photograph of Violet with her first child, a one-month-old Gabriel."

John just watched him, and patiently waited for him to find the right words. "The way she was looking at him… I'd never seen her with that expression before. She looked truly happy, and free. For some reason, drugs just lost their appeal after that. I'm still not really sure why, exactly." John smiled softly at his flatmate. Sherlock might not understand, but he did. He understood perfectly. "When you saw how happy she was you forgave yourself for not trying to help her run away when she asked you to, and for wanting to keep her close to you."

Sherlock looked sceptical, but he didn't interrupt. Sometimes he thought that John would make a better therapist than that idiot of a woman he used to go to, Ella something. "You stopped feeling so guilty about letting Violet down, and gave yourself a second chance. You wanted to be clean so that, if she ever came to ask you for your help again, you'd be able to give her that. Also, since you were finally getting information about her again, you didn't feel quite so lonely anymore. If you ever had a crisis, you'd know where to find her."

Sherlock just went very quiet for a while, mulling over these theories. John let him, and stayed by his side at the window until Lucy started crying. He fetched her from the nursery, heated a bottle of Mary's milk, and brought them both over to Sherlock. The genius seemed a bit startled, and rather awkward, but John sat him down and showed him how to hold her properly and feed her. It was something Sherlock had never thought he'd do, feed a baby, but he was surprisingly eager to learn. He wasn't in the least bit convincing when he complained.

When Lucy had finished drinking, John handed him a spit-up towel, explained what it was for, and taught Sherlock how to burp his daughter. Sherlock took care of her all evening, watching her sleep in his arms with a somewhat puzzled look on his face, soldiering through the atrocious process of changing her diaper, and feeding her every two to three hours. John felt like a monster, letting him get so attached to her. It was more to cheer himself up, than anything else, when he asked one last question as they headed to bed.

"Do you really call him Myra? Like, to his face I mean? Which of you came up with that one?" Sherlock's eyes found his, dancing with merriment. Within seconds they were chuckling and giggling, shushing each other without any sincerity at all. For a few minutes it was like they were still outside the building where John had shot a bloody awful cabbie to save Sherlock from being terminally idiotic, and the last two years and three months had never happened. It was absolutely glorious.

x

Sherlock took a deep breath, drew himself up to his full height, and opened the door. The people he was meeting today were two gay men, who said that they'd been together for seven years, and were engaged. He held no issue with a gay couple adopting Lucy. He could also tell that they'd been truthful about how long they'd been together, and how committed they were to their relationship.

No, it wasn't those things that bothered him. It was the several obvious signs that the men were both mid-level drug-dealers, like the small trace of cocaine on the tip of the skinnier man's index finger. He didn't show any signs of addiction or withdrawal, so no doubt he'd recently been checking the quality of his supply. How lovely. He carefully dripped some of the ether from his chemistry set onto a handkerchief and a hand-towel, and palmed the handkerchief to John.

They each took down one of the men, Sherlock narrowly avoiding getting knifed in his guts. The men were still unconscious, and trussed up like a pair of turkeys, when Lestrade came to get them. Greg asked a few more questions this time, but Sherlock had just claimed that he'd planned all along to use the same trap for both criminals, and somehow the Detective Inspector bought it. The Consulting Detective mused that this was why New Scotland Yard needed his services as often as they did.

**AN: Please remember to review. *hands out free hugs to all readers***


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